34

Leiston Army Airfield
Saturday, May 20, 1944

“Okay, ladies, let’s think this through.” Behind the desk in the Aeroclub office, Adler drew vertical lines down a piece of paper and labeled the columns “steps,” “problems,” and “solutions.”

Sitting next to him, Violet and Kitty wore forlorn expressions as identical as their uniforms. Since Mr. Tate’s ultimatum, the two women hadn’t been able to think straight, not that Adler blamed them. It had taken several rounds with a punching bag at the base gymnasium to clear his mind. And women didn’t seem to punch things. Too bad.

Adler shoved up his rolled-up shirtsleeves. “First step—ordering. How do y’all do that?”

Kitty tugged at a brown curl. “I don’t think that’s a problem.”

“That’s not the point. Let’s think through the entire process. Ordering.”

“I order most of our food from Banister’s in Leiston, but some from Red Cross Headquarters in London.”

Adler made notes. Nothing for the thief to exploit in the ordering process. No changes needed. “Next step—delivery.”

“The Red Cross supplies are delivered here directly,” Kitty said. “We pick up the rest at Banister’s.”

“Who and how?”

“I do. Corporal Griffith drives me in a truck.” Kitty closed her eyes. “I used to send Millie. How could I have been so stupid?”

Violet gripped her friend’s hand. “Not stupid. Trusting. And I doubt she stole from the deliveries with Griff right there.”

“Back to the grocer’s.” Adler pointed his pen at Kitty. “You check the order versus the invoice?”

“Now I do. Then Mr. Banister and Griff and I load the truck.”

“Do you check off the invoice during loading?”

Kitty frowned. “Um, no. Oh, dear. Do you think the grocer would cheat us?”

Under both “problems” and “solutions,” Adler made more notes. “We’re not blaming anyone. We’re thinking this through. Does Griff drive you straight here, or do you make any other stops?”

“Straight here, then we unload right away.”

“Who unloads?” He started a new row.

“We all do,” Violet said. “Griff, Kitty, anyone in the kitchen.”

Kitty nodded. “While they’re unloading, I fill in the log.”

Adler tapped his pen against his chin. “Do you fill it out from the invoice or do you check off each item as it’s stored?”

“From the . . . the invoice.” Kitty’s brown eyes widened. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?”

“Possibly.” Adler filled in the columns. “Someone could snitch food from the truck when your backs are turned, or Griff could leave supplies in the truck and cart them away.”

“Oh, not Griff,” Violet said.

Adler couldn’t help but smile. “Too tenderhearted. Makes for good Red Cross ladies, but right now y’all have to think like hard-boiled detectives.”

Violet chewed on her lower lip. “I hate to suspect anyone.”

“I know.” He loved that about her.

For the next half hour, he talked them through the process. It got messy, what with deliveries to ground crew and pilots’ rooms and parties, as well as snack bar operations. By the end, they’d identified a few more holes and thought up ways to plug them.

With seventeen hundred men on the base and dozens of Red Cross workers and volunteers, they might never find the culprit. But they could make it harder for the snake to strike.

Kitty glanced at the clock. “I’d better make sure everything’s ready for the after-dinner rush. Thank you, Adler.” She grabbed her jacket from the coatrack and moved to shut the door.

“Keep it open, please.” Not only did he want to protect Violet’s reputation, but he needed to avoid situations where he might be tempted to push her. Because boy, was she tempting.

“Oh, dear.” Violet ran her finger down the middle column. “We’ll never solve this.”

“Hey, now.” Adler rubbed her back, aware of the warmth of her skin through her cotton blouse. “Y’all have a good plan.”

She shook her head. “Kitty and I have other duties. We can’t monitor every step.”

“Of course not. Plug the holes we found, and we’ll go from there.” He moved her finger from the “problems” column to the “solutions” column. “Everything will be fine.”

“And if it isn’t? What if Mr. Tate fires us? The women need these jobs, and they’re good workers. It isn’t fair for all of them to be punished because of one dishonest person—who might not even be our employee.”

“I know.” He laced his fingers through hers. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Less than a month.” Her features twisted. “Then we’ll be sent home in disgrace. I can’t bear that.”

Adler understood that feeling well. But it was different for her. With his free hand, he tapped her under the chin. “If it comes to that, you go home and hold your head high. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No one else will know that. No mission board or school board will accept me.” She crumpled against his side. “And I’ll miss you.”

Boy, did he want to turn Mr. Tate into his next punching bag. Instead, he extracted his hand and put his arm around Violet’s shoulder. “Hey, now. Soon as this war’s over, I’m coming for you. I’ll sweep you up on that white steed of mine, and we’ll ride off into the sunset so you can raise our twenty-nine kids.”

She lifted her head, her face awash with doubts.

He gave her a little kiss and a wink. “You can’t run away from me that easily.”

Violet rested her head on his shoulder. “I do love you.”

“I love you too.” So much it ached inside him.

A light knock on the open door. Nick stood there. “Mail came.”

Adler blinked at his friend. The mail came every day, not that it mattered to him.

But the concern in Nick’s expression jolted him. Was something wrong with his wife? His baby girl? “Oh no. Did you get bad news from home?”

Nick shook his head and laid an envelope on the desk.

The handwriting stabbed Adler in the chest. “My father.”

“Oh, Adler.” Violet clutched his hand on her shoulder.

“Would you like me to stay?” Nick asked.

Adler raised a flimsy smile. “Thanks, but I’m all right.”

“I’m going to dinner, then the officers’ club.” Nick motioned with his thumb over his shoulder. “You know where to find me.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Would you like privacy?” Violet said after he left.

Every muscle wanted to flee from that letter, but he had to take on whatever pain it might inflict before he could heal. And he had Violet. “Please stay.”

He uncurled his arm from around her and picked up the envelope, the first contact he’d had with his family for almost three years. His fingers barely worked, but he opened the letter and pulled out several sheets of stationery.

Something small fluttered to the floor, and Violet picked it up. “What a cutie-pie. Who’s this?”

Adler stared at a studio photograph of a little boy with white-blond hair and laughing eyes. He took it and flipped it over. “Timothy Paxton, age 2.”

“Is one of your brothers married?”

“No . . .” But three years had passed, and shame slapped him. “Actually, I don’t know. It couldn’t be Clay. With his dark coloring, he could never have a towhead like this.”

“Wyatt? Is he blond?”

“Yeah. Must be.” But if Wyatt was married, what was he doing flirting with an English redhead? That wasn’t like him.

Adler slipped the picture into his breast pocket and unfolded the letter, his gut twining. He scooted his chair to the side and faced Violet.

She turned her chair too, set her hands on his knees, and bowed her head.

Praying for him.

Love for her swelled inside. God could get him through this alone, but he was glad God had given him Violet too.

A prayer of his own, and he dove in.

Dear Adler,

I can’t begin to tell you how relieved your mama and I were to receive your letter. You were right when you said we never stopped praying for you. But you were mistaken to think we couldn’t forgive you. We already have.

However, seeing the depth of your remorse confirms our faith in you, and we’re pleased to hear of your salvation. If this tragedy and sin turned you to God, it wasn’t all for naught.

We will always love you, and you’re always welcome here.

“They—” Adler wet his dry lips. “They forgave me.”

Violet looked up, her face luminous. “I knew they would.”

Such beautiful innocence. He gave her a wry smile and waved the stationery. “Still two pages to go.”

We apologize for delaying our reply. A lot has happened since that night, and some of it isn’t ours to tell. It took three weeks of talking to God, each other, and the preacher to decide how much to tell you and when.

Even though we know this letter will cause more pain and regret, we felt it best to tell you everything that concerns you. In your letter you said facing your sins was like wrenching a dislocated shoulder back into place. Well, now it’s time to fix your other shoulder.

You assumed Wyatt was in Kerrville. However, he also ran away that night and never contacted us. About a month ago we finally heard from him. God answered our prayers to hear from both our prodigals.

Like you, Wyatt seems to be doing well. Like you, he joined up. He’s an officer in the Navy, serving on the same island as you. I’ll enclose his address at the end. He wants to hear from you.

Adler rested the letter in his lap. “It was Wyatt in London. He—he wants to hear from me.”

“What great news.”

Was it? He’d driven his brother to run away for three years! So afraid he hadn’t even written home. Did Wyatt want Adler to write—or was Daddy doing a little manipulation?

Daddy hadn’t seen how Wyatt had run from him in Hyde Park.

And there was a whole lot of letter remaining.

Clay is indeed overseas with you. Financial troubles kept him from going to college. Just as well, because with you and Wyatt gone, we needed him at Paxton Trucking. Last February the military ended draft deferments for men twenty-two and younger, and the Army took him. He volunteered for the Rangers, and we’re proud of what he’s doing.

We urge you to write Clay as well. It’ll do you both good.

“It was Clay on the Queen Elizabeth.” Adler noted the difference—Clay hadn’t asked Adler to write. “He’s an Army Ranger. But he was supposed to become a doctor.”

“That isn’t your fault, is it?”

Adler frowned at the words. As much as he wanted to take on that blame, he couldn’t. “No. Something about financial troubles.” But that didn’t make sense. Clay had saved up, and he was too focused on his goal to squander his savings.

As for what happened that night in the garage, we’re glad to hear that you’re sorry, that you’ve repented, and that God’s forgiven you.

But even when our sins are forgiven by God and man, consequences remain.

It goes without saying that Clay broke up with Ellen. We didn’t see her for four months. Then in October, she showed up on our doorstep. Her parents had kicked her out and moved out of state.

Ellen was carrying your child.

Not a wrenched shoulder. Not a stab in the heart. A millstone crushing his chest, grinding down, forbidding all breath.

His . . . child? The little boy. The picture burned against his chest.

The crushing spread to his head and ground his future to dust.

His plans. Violet.

Her head bowed, her voice murmuring in prayer, her heart unaware that one sentence had changed her life as well.

He ripped his gaze from the woman he loved to the words he hated.

Of course we took her in. For the sake of the baby, we urged Clay and Ellen to marry. But Clay refused to marry the girl who’d betrayed and humiliated him, and Ellen insisted on waiting for you to return. Turns out she never loved Clay. She said she’d always loved you and had used Clay to get close to you.

Nausea swept through his belly. Adler had to marry her. For the baby. The boy. He had to marry a woman who took advantage of Clay’s sweet nature. A woman who took advantage of Adler’s grief and anger and taste for whiskey.

This was the kind of wife Adler was going to get. The only kind of wife he deserved.

“Adler?” Concern lifted Violet’s voice.

He couldn’t bear to look her in the face.

Your son, Timothy, was born March 8, 1942, healthy and strong and kicking.

He had a son. A son. A two-year-old son. For two years, he’d had a son and he’d never even known.

Violet’s voice drifted around, soft and anxious as if in another room.

Adler scooted away, freeing his knees from her touch. Never again would she touch him, talk to him, love him. It had to be that way. For the boy. For Timothy.

I’m sad to report that Ellen was killed late that spring in a car accident, driving too fast in the rain. At least the baby was home with us at the time.

That millstone ground harder. Adler didn’t want to marry her, but he didn’t want her dead! He’d killed her. As good as killed her. Just like his own mother. Just like Oralee.

Why wouldn’t this letter end? He couldn’t take any more.

Ice crystals prickled in his veins, lining up to build a protective shell.

We’re raising little Timmy, and we’re happy to do so. He’s a blessing in the middle of the darkest years of our lives. He’s bright and mischievous and cute as the dickens. Just like you at that age.

Adler skimmed the rest. “We forgive you . . . We love you . . . Please come home . . . You’re always welcome . . .” But it didn’t—none of it penetrated.

He fought off the ice, shook off the crystals. He’d earned this pain. He needed to feel it.

“Adler?” Violet’s voice quivered. “Please, sweetheart. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

His gaze swam to meet hers. So trusting, so innocent, so pure. She could never . . . She shouldn’t have to . . . He refused to make her.

Somehow his crushed-up, ground-up heart managed to shatter.

Adler pushed himself to standing, dizzier and more nauseated than if he were knee-walking drunk. As he’d been that night he destroyed all those lives. Oralee. Wyatt. Clay. Ellen.

“Adler?” Tears distorted Violet’s eyes.

Adler wouldn’t let himself destroy her life as well.

“Once—” His voice rasped out. “Once you told me nothing I did could change how you feel about me.”

“Well, yes, of—”

“I won’t hold you to that. I release you from that promise.”

“What? I—I don’t—”

Adler dropped the letter on the desk. “Read it. Good-bye.”

And he fled. For good this time. For her good.